


Second Comings

by Lymphadei



Series: Cockney Boys [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Porn Stars, Dating, Eye Sex, First Dates, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension, brief mention of het sex, innuendos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 03:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11706126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymphadei/pseuds/Lymphadei
Summary: John takes Sherlock up on his offer to meet for dinner and discuss a future collaboration.





	Second Comings

If he was honest with himself, John hadn’t expected much to come from his dinner date with Sherlock Holmes. The man’s reputation preceded him, and John wasn’t sure he was down to the task of entering into any type of relationship with a prima donna. Not to say that that wasn’t what Sherlock was. He could most certainly throw a fit if things didn’t go his way, but the benefits of his more attractive qualities out-weighed the risks, and John never regretted his decision.

The date hadn’t ended at the little Italian bistro on Northumberland, which was hardly surprising considering all that happened during dinner.

From the moment Sherlock left the set earlier that day, John hadn’t been able to forget the piercing quality of his steely blue gaze, those plump, perfectly bowed lips, and the soft curl of his hair. Seeing it again just a few hours later, John couldn’t help but admire the man’s striking features. Even without the set lighting, the elegant cut of Sherlock’s high cheekbones highlit a row of straight white teeth and dimples that framed the curve of his lips.

“John,” Sherlock greeted him warmly, his large hand swallowing John’s in a firm grip. His palm was soft and warm, thumb rubbing a half-circle across the back of John’s hand.

John grinned, lips settling into a flirtatious curve as Sherlock’s eyes slid appreciatively down his frame.

“Sherlock,” John returned, sliding into the seat opposite Sherlock. When they were settled, Sherlock ordered a bottle of white wine without a glance at the menu the waiter laid out on the table. “If I knew we were coming to a posh place like this, I would’ve worn something a bit…” John tugged on the collar of his best jumper, a cerulean, cashmere number his sister had bought him for his last birthday.

Sherlock smirked and tilted his head, his eyes unmoving where they locked onto John’s. John, mirrored the action, feeling the intent of that stare down to his cells. He’d never met anyone with such an oddly intense gaze.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock allowed, “but you forget I’ve seen what’s beneath all that. You look fine.”

As true as it was, John hadn’t expected Sherlock to be so forward, but with all he heard about Sherlock before the shoot, he probably should have expected it.

John chuckled, sitting back into the seat. “True enough.”

The waiter delivered the drinks to the table, and Sherlock recommended his preferred dish to John, which he agreed to readily, and soon the waiter was off to place their orders.

The first sip of wine went down smoothly, rich and supple on his tongue in a way that made his body relax into the seat. Well, _that_ and Sherlock’s warm stare. Beneath the table, he could feel the warmth from Sherlock’s calves through his trousers, where they stretched out to bracket John’s. His lips were dry, so he licked them, pulse quickening as Sherlock’s eyes followed the motion.

“So,” John began, toying with the cloth wrapped round the silverware. “You mentioned collaborating with me in future.” Not as smooth as John would have liked for it to come out, but he had a feeling straightforward was the way to go with Sherlock. He didn’t seem like a man who suffered fools gladly. John smiled and went in for another sip without breaking their interminable stare.

Sherlock seemed to appreciate his bluntness and gave just as direct an answer. “If you’re amenable, that is.” He paused, then pushed the wine aside and leaned forward, hands clasping on the table. “If we're going to be frank with one another, which is advisable if we’re to continue our association, it wasn’t the only reason I invited you here, John.”

John pressed his lips into a small smile, feeling the weight on his shoulders lessen with Sherlock’s admission. “I was hoping so,” he said, fingers playing with the stem of his glass.

Sherlock seemed to relax also as his chest deflated, which John certainly wouldn’t have noticed had he not been eyeing the straining buttons of Sherlock’s tight shirt. He sat back in his seat, and John felt the heat surrounding his legs grow closer. Then finally, the first bit of contact as Sherlock pressed the side of his calf to John’s.

John would have liked to blame the heat blooming on his cheeks to the wine, but he hadn’t consumed nearly enough to be feeling the effects yet. The intimacy of a closed off booth, Sherlock’s softened eyes on him, and the coy touches beneath the table made for a heady cocktail.

“I think we both know where this is headed, then,” Sherlock stated, gaze boring into John’s. It made every inch of space between them seem non-existent. “You should know that this isn’t really my area.”

Sherlock spoke the words like a shameful confession, eyes dropping to his clasped hands as his mouth worked. “I’ve never… This-” He cut off with a heavy sigh.

John waited with a patient smile, chest inexplicably tight as Sherlock stumbled through an explanation John didn’t feel he needed.

Finally, Sherlock took a deep breath and continued. “Sex is… not something that requires much thinking, and for the money it pays, I can tolerate mindless idiots in the time it takes to film. This,” Sherlock said, indicating his body with a flick of his wrist, “is merely transport. It doesn’t take much to get the body to do what I want it to, and it’s easy for me to disconnect. However, I found that impossible to do with you.”

The more Sherlock explained, the higher John felt his eyebrows going, until he could feel the pressure of them creasing his forehead up into his hairline. “Me?” He asked, bemused, maybe a bit sceptical. There was nothing special about him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his flustered attitude dropping to be replaced by something more aloof. His pointed nose tilted upward as he jut out his chin. “Yes, John. Who else could I possibly be referring to when I specifically said “you”?

John nodded, blushing again, but this time in embarrassment. “Of course,” he conceded.

Sherlock didn't elaborate any further and John didn't push him to, realizing that the man had just divulged something private about himself, and John was hesitant to pry. It was clear that Sherlock was having trouble expressing his thoughts and to push him, John figured, would be insensitive. His curiosity could wait.

The waiter arrived with the food then, and shortly after they were tucking into their meals, John moaning appreciatively as the taste of buttery linguine, garlic and lemon melted on his tongue. Across from him, Sherlock ate silently, eyes flicking up to John occasionally as if to check in with him. John stifled a fond grin against his wine glass as he took another sip.

They didn’t speak again until the plates were taken away, but the silence was comfortable, and the air between them held promise. Of what, John was still waiting for Sherlock to set the terms.

When they stood to leave, Sherlock helped him into his jacket and trailed his hands down John’s sleeves. John turned his head, and Sherlock’s lips lingered across his temple, his breath warm and lemony from the linguine. “I’d very much like to take you home,” Sherlock murmured, and the heat in John’s belly dropped to his groin.

John turned fully, and Sherlock’s hands tightened on his arms as they faced one another. “Well, I’ve never been the type of bloke to put out on the first date,” he quipped, and Sherlock’s head jerked back in surprise, a startled chuckle leaving his lips.

“Don’t you?” Sherlock’s lips pressed together into a delighted smirk; the cupid’s bow of his upper lip was enticing. “I think you could make an exception this once, seeing as I’ve had you and we both quite enjoyed it. I’m certain it can only get better from here.”

“Will it be worth my while?”

Sherlock tilted his head, eyes flicking up to the ceiling in a mimicry of deep thought. When they fell to John again, his gaze had grown darker, nearly cornflower blue in the muted light of the bistro. One hand ran the length of Sherlock’s arm and grabbed his wrist, thumb landing squarely on John’s racing pulse. This time, he leaned in until his lips were a hair's breadth away from his ear.

“I can assure you, John, time will be the furthest thing from your mind when I’ve got you in my bed and your thighs over my shoulders.”

If John wasn’t hard before, he certainly was now. The purr of Sherlock’s gravelly baritone in his ear overwhelmed him, turned his thoughts into puddles of slush. His hesitation fled and with Sherlock pressed up against him, John knew there was only one answer that he wouldn’t regret.

“God, yes.”

-

Sherlock’s place wasn’t very far, a quaint two-storey building nestled between a café and a row of residential flats.

The ride there was fairly innocuous and anticipation kept them quiet as they lost themselves in thought, gazing outside their respective windows. The only thing that touched were their little fingers, entwined on the middle seat. That the small touch excited him made John wonder how he would respond to having Sherlock’s soft skin back beneath his hands.

Sherlock led him inside and up two flights of stairs before they reached his door. He unlocked it without much trouble and beckoned John inside, eyes riveted to John’s face.

The place was messy; there were books strewn about the tables and floors, stuffed into corners, sitting atop the telly. The mismatched furniture looked comfortably worn, little pale cracks streaking the couch leather.

“Do you live here alone?” John enquired, glancing around the room. His brows shot up as he spotted a skull on the mantle. There was no way a man could make this much of a mess by himself.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he closed the door and locked it before he shucked off his coat and hung it on the rack. “Obvious. Why do you ask?”

John shrugged, unsure what to do with himself now that they were there. He smiled, “No. I can’t imagine a flatmate that wouldn’t want to strangle you for this,” he said, indicating the disarrayed flat.

However, despite his words, John found himself relaxing amid the mess. It was cozy, for all its clutter; comforting and personal. It was an insight into Sherlock’s mind.

It didn’t at all match the put together man he’d met earlier, with his silk shirts and slim fitting suits.

Sherlock tilted his head, agreeing with John. “Not currently looking, either. Flatmates are tedious.” As he spoke, he drifted closer until they were chest to chest. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Sherlock insisted. His hand came up to cup the side of John’s neck in a large palm, forcing John to tilt his jaw up as his thumb pressed lightly over John’s carotid artery. “I can see your pulse racing from where I’m standing."

John’s stomach performed an impressive double flip at the low pitched rumble building up in Sherlock’s long porcelain throat. He wanted to suck his bobbing Adam’s apple between his lips and feel it move on his tongue as Sherlock talked.

Sherlock must have read his nervous energy. He dropped his head to meet John’s eyes, his, surprisingly soft and understanding. “Relax,” he murmured, his finger rubbing soothing circles in the dip behind John’s earlobe. His hand was warm and the size of it recalled the image of those elongated fingers buried inside of Molly’s slick passage as John licked around them.

John leaned into it, his lids fluttering shut as Sherlock pulled him close enough to spot the flecks of hazel in his irises.

It wasn’t much different kissing Sherlock without the cameras and crew, and Molly watching them. Sherlock kissed like a depraved man, a plundering wet tongue and sharp nips that were sure to leave John’s mouth swollen and aching. His lips latched onto John’s tongue and sucked, swallowing the belly-deep moan he’d drawn from John with ruthless efficiency.

John felt like a virgin being taken for the first time, coaxed and seduced by sweet touches, and just as anxious and overwhelmed as Sherlock twined his tongue around John’s. Their chins slid against one another, spit-slick and hot as they kissed with mouths wide open. He felt picked clean and devoured, stripped down. Exposed.

Sherlock walked him backward and helped John strip his jacket with quick, clever fingers. His hands were miraculously dry where they skirted up his sides, whereas John’s were damp with sweat where they dug into Sherlock’s curls. He was too keyed up to think of anything other than Sherlock’s mouth smashed against his and his fingers on John’s zip.

They didn’t quite make it to the couch, but it didn’t seem to matter. The arm of the sofa was wedged into his arse and Sherlock was pressed into his front, rolling his hard cock against John’s stomach as he pulled John’s lip between his teeth and swiped his tongue over it. Sherlock’s breath was hot and heavy in his mouth as they broke away to catch their breaths. “God, the things you do with that mouth,” John groaned as Sherlock’s swollen lips sucked a trail of bruising kisses down the juncture of his jaw and neck.

Sherlock growled against his skin and swiped a hot line up to John’s ear that nearly made him come in his pants. “This mouth can do anything you want,” he purred. “And for the record, you should know I’m more partial licking arse than sucking pussy.” At this, Sherlock slid his large palm down John’s back and grasped his arse, his long middle finger pointedly pressing into the seam of John’s trousers, right over his wanton hole.

“Could’ve fooled me the way you were going at Molly’s wet cunt,” John grunted, shuddering as Sherlock’s finger massaged his perineum through his trousers.

Sherlock chuckled and pulled away, reaching for the buttons on his shirt. His eyes never left John’s, heated and sharp, glazed over with a desire John had forgotten was possible in an industry where emotions came fabricated and wrapped in neat little plastic packages who spread their legs willingly and spoke shallow words through their shallow lips. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the authenticity of organic intercourse, foreplay that wasn’t dictated by a director, and unforced attraction.

“Don’t get me wrong, John,” Sherlock said, his voice, caught in the cavern of his throat, reverberated as he dragged John’s attention squarely back onto him. “I can easily pleasure a woman for hours, suck her clit between my lips and make her scream her throat ragged. I quite like it.” As he spoke, Sherlock peeled his tight shirt off to reveal a tight, pale chest, pink, peaked nipples and a broad set of shoulders that John distinctly remembered being nuzzled under his knees as Sherlock sucked his cock during the shoot.

“But it can never compare to having a man’s strong, muscled back beneath my hand, a pair of hairy thighs spread out on my sheets and a _thick_ , hard cock to jerk while I’m fucking my tongue into his arse.”

John watched him, willing his body to calm. The words had sent a jolt of arousal straight to his already tortured erection, still trapped in the suffocating confines of his trousers and pants. “God, you have a dirty mouth.”

Sherlock smirked and slowly lowered the zip on his trousers. “And you’re still dressed. Why?”

John didn’t need any more prompting than that, and soon, his clothes joined Sherlock’s on the old, dusty carpet, nearly kicked beneath the couch as they wrestled each other down to the cushions.

In their battle for dominance, Sherlock ended up trapped on his back and pinned between John’s legs, the length of his long cock resting snug and hard amid John’s arse cheeks.   
A dark, hazy gaze blazed a trail down his body as strong hands gripped John’s hips hard enough to bruise. “You look lovely up there,” Sherlock commented with a thoughtful tilt to his head. Though the motion was speculative, his eyes were wry with flirtatious humour. “Do you ride?”

John knew that Sherlock was teasing him, every sex-infused word engineered to drive him round the bend with lust. It was better than any foreplay John had ever had. Seeing Sherlock sprawled under him like so, there was something very hedonistic about it, from the curl of his lips to the devilish slant of his silver-sharp eyes. John never wanted anyone so desperately. “Like a seasoned equestrian,” he replied, lids dipping low as he rocked back and forth slowly along Sherlock’s cock.

His body was growing warm, and Sherlock’s was too by the flushed skin of his chest and neck. He'd bared his throat, head pressed into the cushions as John milked that lovely cock between his cheeks. His arse was already sticky from Sherlock’s leaking erection, John could picture beads of white fluid slipping down his glands and leaving translucent, wet stripes on John’s skin as he slid over the length of him.

“Milking me, you naughty boy,” Sherlock chuckled, the sound breaking off into a moan as John reached behind himself to grab Sherlock’s cock and rubbed the slick head against his hole. “You’re going to make me come and I want to be inside you.”

John couldn’t argue with that, so leaned down and nuzzled Sherlock’s open mouth with his own, his hardness trapped between their bellies. He rolled his hips if only to ease some of the pressure. “Lube?”

Sherlock nodded. “Trousers, front left pocket.”

John laughed aloud, joined by Sherlock’s nearly soundless snicker as he bent over to search through their pile of clothes. He found the small packet of lubricant where Sherlock said and sat up. “Someone had ambitions,” he teased, brows raised.

“I always come prepared,” Sherlock returned just as quickly, and again, they both giggled like schoolboys discovering naughty jokes for the first time at the double entendre.

The giggles morphed into groans as John stroked a lubricated hand down Sherlock’s prick. Sherlock retrieved the packet from where it sat on John’s thigh and squeezed some onto his fingers. With their position, he had to recline on his elbow to reach behind John. Skilled digits gently breached his opening and John couldn’t stay his hips from moving, hoping they’d go deeper and find that spot that made his balls tighten.

Sherlock growled and thrust his cock into John’s grip. “God, how is it possible you’re tighter than you were this afternoon?”

“Squats,” John smirked, though it didn’t last. His jaw slackened as Sherlock’s fingers found his prostate and with one flawlessly executed twist of his fingers, John was writhing on his hips. A string of expletives spilled from his lips as Sherlock turned the tables and began to milk him for everything he was worth.

“Mm, that’s it, John,” Sherlock breathed, encouraging the slow grind of John’s hips as he rubbed the gland with the pads of his fingers. “I could come just seeing you like this. You’re perfect.”

When he was opened and slick, Sherlock removed his fingers and John placed the head at his entrance before sinking onto him. They didn’t bother with condoms, as their profession required regular STI screenings. Neither of them would have been able to shoot the video if any of the tests came back negative. Maybe a part of him also enjoyed feeling Sherlock without the added layer of latex.

The only sound to permeate the silence was their tremulous breaths as Sherlock was drawn inside of him. His prick was long, thick and lovely; no space was left unfilled.

Sherlock collapsed back onto the couch, breathless as John began to move on him, a slow, dangerous grind that John noticed made his toes curl into the cushions and his fingers drag stinging welts down John’s thighs. Along with the arousal was the smug satisfaction that he could reduce this arrogant, otherworldly creature to a shivering mess and he hadn’t even got started properly. His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Sherlock’s eyes, which were wide and waxen before, narrowed into metallic slits. The next moment, he was pounding up into John’s body, two handfuls of John’s arse gripped in his palm as he forced John to ride him fast and hard.

John grunted, steadying himself on Sherlock’s shoulders as he made good on his promise and rode Sherlock like a prize stallion. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” John huffed and nearly bit his tongue off as his teeth began to click with the force of Sherlock’s thrusts. “Your big—your big cock ploughing me like a bloody lorry, augh!”

John could see the tendons straining in Sherlock’s neck and arms as he slammed John down on his cock, a long, constant growl only disturbed by the jolt of their bodies meeting violently over and over again. John reached for his cock, having long neglected it as it slapped against his stomach and thigh with each stroke.

“Come on John, come on!” Sherlock urged, wrapping his hand round John’s where he jerked his cock to the pace of their furious fucking. The sound of their skin slapping together was making his throat close up. He was panting, standing on the edge of what he knew would be a fantastic hurtle down. The trick was to wait as long as he could before the tip-over. The longer the wait, the sweeter the reward.

Sherlock sprung up, his mouth on John’s before he could even register what was happening. His tongue plundered with an unwavering devotion to see John ruined and submissive. John gave back just as good as he got until they were nearly biting at each other lips in their determination to bring one another to heel.

John’s climax startled him, just as sudden as it was vicious. For a moment, he couldn’t feel anything but that numb tingling in his extremities and the tell-tale tightening of his balls as his body went rigid. Sherlock whimpered against him, immersed in his powerful orgasm as John squeezed around him. John could feel Sherlock’s cock pulsing inside of him, hot, sticky fluid rubbing his walls as Sherlock ground up into him until they were both thoroughly milked.

They collapsed tangled together, chests heaving as they sought to bring their heartbeats somewhere nearing normal. Sweat beaded sticky and warm between their chests and John hesitated to pull away, unwilling to expose his skin to the cold air flowing from the air-con.

However, Sherlock left him no choice when he gently pulled out of John and sat up. John stood on wobbly legs, knees popping as he stretched up on his toes to encourage blood flow and get some feeling back into his numb legs. Sherlock’s semen was tracking a viscous trail down the back of his thigh. “Bathroom?" he asked, and Sherlock led him through a chaotic kitchen area and to a door in the hall just off to the left.

John had only planned to wash up a bit, but he hadn’t counted on Sherlock wanting to be near him still so soon after sex. He didn’t seem the cuddly type, but John was pleasantly surprised when he offered John to take a shower with him. John reckoned it would be better than catching a cab home feeling mucky and reeking of sex.

There’s hardly enough room in the shower for two grown men, but they make it work, due in part to their unwillingness to stray far from the other. John couldn’t stop touching him, letting his hands wander to places he hadn’t the chance to before. Sherlock had him about the waist, large hands caressing his hips and lower back in soothing strokes. John could feel him breathing along his temple, blowing frigid air on his wet hair. He shivered, digging grooves into trapezius muscle, marking Sherlock’s smooth pastel skin a fetching pale coral hue.

They’d already washed, but neither of them was in a rush to move, content to enjoy the closeness they shared.

“We never did talk about a partnership, you know,” John pointed out after nearly half an hour of comfortable silence. “Considering that was the reason you asked me to meet you.”

Sherlock scoffed, huffing into John’s hair. “We both know that wasn’t the reason I asked you to dinner, John. Not even you could be that oblivious.”

“Oi!” John drew back, raising a brow at his… Sherlock. “I didn’t actually go into this thinking we would come back to your place for a shag. I was eager to hear what you had to say.”

Sherlock graced him with a lopsided smile, a hint of that smug, arrogance glinting in his gaze. “Eager, indeed,” he hummed. “I haven’t been ridden like that in many years, and never with such skill—oh, wipe that self-satisfied look off your face.”

“No, truly, Sherlock, I’m flattered,” John said, grinning up at him. “Don’t get compliments much in this industry. Everyone has had it in every way, nothing is… novel.” He looked away, feeling unaccountably sheepish under Sherlock’s confident, knowing stare.

Sherlock dislodged a hand from his waist and John found his head being tilted back, his thumb caressing John’s chin as if he were something delicate. “You shouldn’t hold it against them, John. Mundane people are often unobservant and I don’t expect them to realize when they have something extraordinary among them.” Sherlock paused with a quick hum, his eyes flicking over John’s face. “Though you play very well at being boring and ordinary, I find you anything but. Don’t ask me to pin it down; I couldn’t tell you exactly why you intrigue me even if I wanted to… You’re a puzzle.”

The words warmed him, made him feel guilty like a schoolgirl learning that her crush felt the same way. John wasn’t sure how to answer, so he pulled Sherlock down where their mouths melded together in a firm, lingering kiss.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” John said when they separated. Sherlock agreed and turned off the water. They didn’t spend much time drying off, swiping their bodies quickly, Sherlock donning a silk gown and John, the clothes he’d retrieved from beneath the couch where they’d been kicked during the flurry.

“You know,” Sherlock began, when they were standing at the door. “If it were you, I could certainly reconsider my stance on a flatmate… if you were amenable, that is.”

John froze, a bit surprised that Sherlock would offer. Though they’d had sex twice now, they still hardly knew one another. It was tempting to say yes, but John was stopped by the thought that if things didn’t work out between them, it would be awkward. Yet, he couldn’t quite bring himself to decline.

He folded his arms, head tilted as he returned that searching gaze. “Not saying it’s a terrible idea, buuuut it just might be,” he smirked.

Sherlock pulled his head back, a wrinkle forming on the bridge of his nose as he wrinkled it. “How so? Obviously we work well together, we have chemistry, and the sex is fantastic. Why would it be a bad idea?”

“Because sex isn’t everything, Sherlock. As much as I enjoy being around you, I still don’t know much about you, and you don’t know much about me.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, scanning John’s body in a way that made him seem more machine than man. “I know that you’ve medical experience, former military, a doctor and a soldier, a walking contradiction if there ever was one. I know that you hate the flat you have now and have been looking to let elsewhere. I also happen to know that sex hasn’t interested you in awhile, despite the quite vigorous romp we just engaged in and I know that you’re just as unwilling to walk out the door and let this be the last time we meet as I am.”

Stunned, John opened his mouth and closed it, wondering if anyone had been gossipping about him. “How did you—”

Sherlock cut across him in that same rapid tone he’d used before, stripping John’s exterior with seemingly little to no information. “Considering I’d be in close quarters with you for the majority of an afternoon, I did my research. It didn’t take much effort to find your starter videos. You held yourself less confidently, made rookie mistakes, broke the fourth wall occasionally. You had tan lines about your wrists and on your neckline. Not to mention the standard military cut and the way you stand; at ease until a figure of authority is addressing you. Afghanistan or Iraq, by the way?” John opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock simply mowed over him, seeming in a trance as the words endlessly spilled from his lips.

“At dinner, when you got out your wallet to pay, I noticed several cards from letting agents stuffed in between the folds. That one was blindingly obvious. And I don’t think I really need to tell you how I know you don’t enjoy sex with insipid women who wouldn’t know how to give you a proper orgasm even if you wrote an instruction manual on it in large, plain font.”

The silence was abrupt after the whirlwind of words Sherlock hurled at him, but John couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than awe. It was weird, that it definitely was, but it was also—

“Extraordinary.”

Sherlock seemed startled and bemused by his reply, jaw slack in a sudden turn of tables. “What?”

John shook his head, fingers itching to be buried back in that wild nest of curls. “That was amazing, I mean, what you did with the…”

“Deducing,” Sherlock filled in, dazed.

“Yeah. Yes.”

The heat was back as they stared at one another, and John thought that if he didn’t leave now, he might never.

“Look,” he started, I thought that was brilliant. You’re brilliant, but why don’t we take it slow, yeah? I want to see you again, and then we can go from there, hm?”

Sherlock conceded with a reluctant agreement. “Alright,” he said, licking his lips. “That seems… fair. Meet me tomorrow then. We’ll talk over coffee as I do intend to work with you again in future if you would agree.”

John nodded. Of course he would agree.

“Well,” he sighed, not really wanting to leave, but the temptation of soft skin and slanted, sleepy eyes was nearly irresistible. He had to be careful. “Goodnight then.”

Sherlock smiled, that same lopsided little thing that made his stomach do flip-flops. “Goodnight, John.” Then the bastard winked and shut the door. In his face.

John turned and ran a hand through his hair, though he couldn’t stop the smile from growing on his lips.

“Bugger.”

Sherlock Holmes was going to be the death of him.

-

The next day they met at the quaint little café next door where they talked about future collaborations. Much of it would need to be discussed with their managers, but John was excited at the prospect of shooting with Sherlock again, and quite happy to see that Sherlock felt the same.

It didn’t take long before they were back in Baker Street, where there was considerably less talking.

One date became two, became three, and on the third, Sherlock brought up the empty room in his flat that they may or may not need (they didn’t) and John agreed.

Now, they were on their way to their first shoot together. It was to be a threesome with a well-known name in the industry, Sergeant Lestrade.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked him, pressed up against his side in the backseat of the hired car taking them to a cottage in the countryside where they would be filming. His lips were still a bit swollen from the hour before, when he’d sucked John’s cock in the kitchen after a bout of eye-fucking over the breakfast table. The man really was insatiable.

“Fine,” John smiled at his partner, still in awe that someone like Sherlock could be interested in someone like him. He was—

“Perfect,” Sherlock murmured, eyes roving over John’s face. “You’re perfect.”

John grinned, giddy despite himself. Sherlock was a bloody miracle. “Come here, you.”


End file.
